Illegal Englishman in London
by Kakawot
Summary: It's 1969, and the Doctor needs something peculiar called: 'money'. "So because the book tells you to get a job as a cabdriver..." "Exactly."


**A/N:** I blame this fic on the song 'Englishman in New York'. Add that to the quote 'if you want a job on Earth: become a taxi driver' from Douglas Adams' masterpiece. Shake it with Dr. Who, and out rolls a plotbunny. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>David glanced back down at the piece of paper in his hands. The information the paper held told him that the man in front of him had no previous experience with taxis whatsoever, but still the man wanted to take the test. His ID checked out, so David jerked a thumb over his shoulder.<p>

"Seat 32, good luck."

David took one last look at the ID and grinned at the name. John Smith, the poor bloke was called. He handed John the ID back and focused on the next person in line. The man smiled at him and took the appropriate seat.

David felt sorry for him. He'd never even seen the guy before, and that was rare. He knew most of the knowledge boys on a first-name basis, but John Smith showed up out of the blue.

When all of the men (and one woman) had taken their seats, David closed the window and stood at the front of the room. The men (and woman) faced him. Some looked anxious, some looked relaxed, and some of them looked plain weird. Like the man who kept on grinning. David drew a deep breath and then spoke.

"I have one thing to ask of you all: have you got," he softened his voice to a whisper, "the Knowledge?"

John raised his hand, looking confused. "Excuse me, what knowledge are we talking about? Because I've got lots of knowledge."

David smirked at the guy. A wisecracking fellow, eh? The toughness of the test might take him down a notch or two.

"The roads, mr. Smith, the roads."

John Smith beamed like a boy on Christmas morn' as he leaned back and spoke the next words.

"Roads? Where I'll be going we don't need any roads." John turned to his neighbor. "Waited nine hundred years to say that," he confessed. David raised one eyebrow at him. A nut job _and_ a wisecracker. Poor guy, he was going to get eaten alive out there. Still, not his responsibility, so he started handing out the tests.

He'd pay to see John Smith's face as he gradually realized he shouldn't have gone to the pub so often and studied more as he scribbled down the answers. Oh wait, he got _paid_ to watch that! Life was good.

* * *

><p>David felt his eyes widen as he perused the score sheet. As expected, more than half of them failed the test. But what stood out was John Smith's test result. Out of the one hundred points he could score, he scored a neat one hundred. The maps the Knowledge Examinators had him draw were filled out entirely. He even went so far as to add all the names of all the streets, instead of the required two roads and four points of interest. And even those he got right, down to the last narrow alley.<p>

"So? Did I pass?" asked John as he wobbled on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

"Yeah," croaked David. "How did you do it? I've never even seen you here before!"

John Smith grinned at him as he looked over the test results David handed to him. When his eyes had flitted over the page he looked back up at David.

"Oh, it's just that… I'm brilliant."

* * *

><p>And brilliant, he was. Normal knowledge boys took three to five years to learn every street of London. That included taking tests and failing them. If they were particularly stupid or unlucky, they fell back a complete stage. But somehow John Smith managed to squeeze himself into every examination round. David saw his name come across more often than he'd liked, and he wasn't the only one who began to notice the man.<p>

"He's cheating," said David's friend, Bert, one evening down at the pub. "He's a born cheater, I can feel it in my bones."

"How can you cheat at the oral exams?" asked David. Bert worked at the paperwork factory, also known as the government, as the guy who sent out the cabdriver licenses. David had called him more often than he'd liked, and the two had become fast friends somehow.

"I don't know, but he's found a way."

"No," said David slowly, and he took a sip of his beer before he continued. "He's a genius, I think. Not one of those 'I can program in FORTRAN' kind of _geniuses_. He's… real."

"Then why's he not working at IBM or NASA?"

David shrugged. "Beats me. He's a wisecracker though, maybe they kicked him out."

"Well, here's to cheating geniuses blathering their way through impossible tests," said Bert as he raised his glass.

"Hear hear."

* * *

><p>"<em>You<em>? Get a job?" Martha repeated again, just to make sure she had heard it right. And while her brain was out for a walk in the park of disbelief, her thoughts circled around the concept of 'What is this I don't even-'

The Doctor interrupted her mental cuckoo train by holding up a book for her to see. It was not a book per se, but what an e-book would look like if somebody decided to turn an electronic book into an electronic device, without the hassle of digitalizing it first.

"Whenever I get _really_ lost, I turn to this book. Well, not a book in the strictest sense of the word, but more like a compendium of useless knowledge and advice, also useless."

Martha let her eyes rove over the bookdevice. It looked interesting, but she had some experience with the depth of the Doctor's pockets. Especially the uselessness of the materials within. And like with a lot of items in his pockets, she had one question about it:

"If it's useless, why do you carry it around?"

"Because of this," said the Doctor. With his thumb he pressed a button and two words on the cover lit up. The two words immediately put Martha at ease, for various reasons. It reminded her that things could be worse, and there was absolutely no reason to launch intro frantic ranting at the one man who could get her out of this situation.

"You keep that book because of the cover?"

"Yes," admitted the Doctor. "One edition of the book had a misprint, and it only said 'Panic'. Three planets got destroyed before they managed a retraction of it," he said. "Here's the entry on the Daleks."

The Doctor opened the bookdevice and pushed some more buttons. After a few seconds a gentle male voice spoke in soothing tones:

"Daleks. Species from the Skaro planet. If you come across a Dalek: run. For heaven's sake, run. Do not look back, just run. Run until you hear 'exterminate' and then drop dead."

The book pinged softly and the voice stopped. Martha raised her eyebrows at the book.

"And that's supposed to be a guide? 'Run'?"

The Doctor kept pushing buttons until another voice popped up. He quickly silenced it before he looked at Martha.

"To be fair, you should take that advice to heart when you're confronted with a Dalek. But here's what gave me the idea to apply for this job."

With another push of the button the voice spoke.

"Surviving: get a job as a cabdriver immediately. A cabdriver's job is to drive people anywhere they want to go in big yellow machines called taxis. Don't worry if you don't know how the machine works and you can't speak the language, don't understand the geography or indeed the basic physics of the area, and have large green antennae growing out of your head. Believe me, this is the best way of staying inconspicuous."

"So because the book tells you to get a job as a cabdriver…"

"I figured: why not? I can drive a car, and we'll be able to afford all the bits for the timey-wimey detector."

* * *

><p>"Here she is, all yours. Welcome to The Cab Company, mr. Smith."<p>

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Alicia Grey screamed out in vain. This was not happening! People walking on the sidewalk looked at her strangely, but she paid them no heed. She focused her burning gaze on the street, her eyes scanning for the familiar shape.<p>

There! She hitched up her dress and signaled for the car to slow down, but it didn't stop. The slight drizzle pattered on her wide dress and she imagined her hair must be ruined by now. Frantically she flagged down another car, but this one didn't stop either.

"Are you alright, love?" asked a gentle elderly male voice to her left, and she turned her head, keeping one eye on the road.

"No, no I'm not," she confessed. She let her bunched-up dress fall to the dirty street and no longer cared that the spotless white material would get dirty. It was too late to care about that now anyway.

"Had a bit too much to drink?"

Alicia narrowed her eyes as she paid the man more attention. His voice might be gentle, but his face was not. He reeked of vomit and dumpsters, and his front teeth were missing. He eyed her exposed form hungrily and she huffed as she lifted her nose high into the air.

"No, I did not. I am late for my own- Hey! Stop!" she yelled in a panicking voice, but still the cars wouldn't stop for her. Her situation was an unusual sight, but not _that_ strange, was it?

"Come on, maybe I can help," the man tried again. Alicia jerked her arm free as he soon as he gripped it and took a few steps away from him. The slight drizzle turned into heavier rain, and she felt the non-waterproof make-up run down her face.

"No! Leave me alone!"

Frantically she waved at another car, and to her immense relief this one slowed down. She hoped it wasn't some prankster kid who would slow down and then speed up, giving her false hope.

But the car rolled to a stop in front of her, and without sparing the scruffy-looking man another look she threw open the door and squeezed herself inside.

"Going to a-"

"Just drive! Please," she added when the driver frowned. The driver complied and stomped down on the accelerator, teasing a wet screech from the tires. When the man who had been bothering Alicia disappeared around the corner she let herself fall back into the soft car seats.

"Where to?" asked the driver. She saw that he looked at her in his rearview mirror, eyebrows raised as he waited for an answer. The address drifted slowly to the front of her memory, coupled with the time printed onto the invitations. She was late, very late.

"55 Dean street, St. Anne's church."

"Yes ma'am," replied the driver. He turned left at the next intersection before once again abusing the accelerator to make the engine growl.

"I don't think I need to add: please hurry," said Alicia. She tried to use her reflection in the window to smooth down her hair and repair the worst of the damage, but it was no use. She could barely see herself in the reflection and she needed a professional hairdresser and make-up artist to get the stuff on in the first place, let alone fixing it herself in a moving vehicle.

"Don't tell me you're late," said the driver.

"No, this is me on time. I usually go by myself, with my hair all tangled up, my dress ruined and standing without an umbrella in a bad neighborhood."

"Ah, sarcasm. You remind me so much of another woman in a similar situation. Well, not _that_ similar, although this scenario bears an uncanny resemblance."

Alicia gave up on fixing herself and let the cab driver take her to her destination. She noticed that the man used every trick in the book (and some not even printed in any book) to get her fast to her destination. Then she realized she had no money on her, because frankly, who has pockets when wearing a dress like this?

"I hope she was on time," said Alicia. She glanced at the document hung from the driver's seat. John Smith was the driver's name, apparently. Poor man.

John smiled at her, a smile full of teeth and mischief. She felt more at ease in the speeding cab. Something in his eyes, something old and wise told her that everything would be okay.

"I'm glad you stopped for me. You're the fourth cab I've flagged down, and the only one who stopped."

The grin faded and made way for a more serious expression.

"I always make it a priority to pick up women in their wedding dresses," replied John Smith. Alicia raised her eyebrows.

"Why's that?"

"Let's just say it would've saved me a lot of trouble if anyone would've picked up a certain woman in her wedding dress. Although then again, rescuing her in a high-speed chase was exciting and, dare I say it, fun."

"Right," replied Alicia. Another weirdo in her life, but a fast weirdo this time. They were near Dean street, only three more blocks to go.

"I'll get my mum to pay, don't worry," said Alicia. Her mother was the reason she was late for her own wedding, after all. They were going to have _words_.

"Oh, don't worry, I seldom worry. And when I do, the fate of the universe usually hangs in the balance," replied John with a grin. Alicia added another tick in the bonkers box. John stopped right in front of the church, momentarily blocking traffic. Alicia breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her husband-to-be standing outside the church, an anxious look on his face.

"Thank you, John," said Alicia.

"My pleasure," replied John. He put on his blinkers and got out. Before Alicia could wrestle her dress to the other side of the car John had run around the car and opened the door for her.

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," said Alicia. It made getting out of the car a lot easier, and it looked a lot more formal and ceremonial if a man helped her out of the car.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked once she had balanced herself on her heels.

"Just… have a nice life, Alicia," said John with a cheeky wink. Before she could object or wave her mother over to pay he shut the car door, threw her one last smile and got back into the cab. With another wet squeal he drove off, leaving Alicia in the tender care of her fiancée.

"Who was that?" questioned her mother later on, once Alicia was back on speaking terms with her again.

"John Smith, the blandest and nicest man any woman in her wedding dress could hope to meet," replied Alicia. "And he's a nutter."

* * *

><p>"The opera theater, please," requested the well-dressed lady. The Doctor obligingly pushed down on the accelerator and pulled out into traffic.<p>

"So I said to my dear husband: but that won't fit into my house!"

"Oh, how dreadful, Mabel."

"Quite."

The two ladies in the back of his cab kept on chattering away about typical human worries, mostly to do with the bits of paper they kept shoving at each other. The Doctor tuned them out as he concentrated on the road. It was a slippery night and a typical London fog hung low between the buildings. He'd already felt the wheels slide underneath him twice this evening, even though he had improved the car a bit.

He used his average-weighing brain (but therefore not less brilliant!) to map the mental road and let The Knowledge do the work. Funny name for knowing the roads, he mused. You'd think they'd call it 'Road wise' or 'Pigeon instinct'. But no, they had to use a name which was applicable to all kinds of knowledge from any field. If you asked a nuclear scientist whether he had 'The Knowledge', he'd look at you funny and then go on to invent something explodier. Humans sure loved their explosions. Beginning of the universe, of the whole of creation, and what do they call it? Not something reasonable like other species, like 'The Start of Everything' or 'The Illuminated Point' like the Tralayans do. Nope, they call it 'The Big Bang'. They should at least have called it 'THE GINORMOUS BANG', because it warranted all-caps, and-

"I demand that you stop at once!" shrieked one of the women in the backseat. The Doctor looked into his rearview mirror to see what chased him this time, but he only saw two hysterical women and no looming threat. Yet.

He quickly pulled over and twisted around in his seat. "What's the matter?"

"We're two highly respected ladies! If you value your job, you will turn this cab around _this instant_!"

The Doctor turned back and surveyed the scene outside the car to determine what had upset these women so. It became obvious when a woman dressed in remarkably little clothes approached the cab. By the looks of her skin she'd seen one too many tanning beds and even from a distance the Doctor noticed her awkward gait in uncomfortable-looking high-heeled shoes.

"Get _moving_!" shrieked the woman again, and this time she abused her purse to whack the Doctor on his shoulder.

"Right, thanks, exactly what I needed," said the Doctor. He put the car back into gear and sped off, leaving the woman of loose morale behind in a spray of water.

"What do you think you're doing, taking us to a place like that? I'll have your job for this," threatened the woman who wasn't still shrieking.

"Sorry, got my mental map calibrated wrong. They're going to build a theatre there, getting the jump on things."

"Bit much of a jump, there. That whole part of town is all those hoodlums and no-good lowlife."

The Doctor got his mental map and timeline set straight and quickly drove the two ladies to their destination. The shrieking one finally calmed down long enough to start making snide remarks about how she was going to get him fired and so on. The Doctor stopped paying attention to her somewhere around the third word that came out of her mouth.

He was mentally busy with determining when that theatre would be built there, and when he had two more blocks to go it hit him.

"2169, two hundred years from now, _that's_ when they're going to build it!" said the Doctor too loud.

"What are you babbling about? Two hundred years from now? How do you know that?" asked the non-shrieker skeptically.

"Oh just, y'know. Time travel."

The shrieker looked ready to bolt from the cab, moving or not. The non-shrieker kept her in the vehicle by replying in the dry tones only a lady trying to worm her way into high society could muster.

"You're a funny man. Now get us to the theatre!"

"Yes ma'am," replied the Doctor softly, with raised eyebrows.

Humans, what're you going to do? Though not all humans were like that. Women then. Human women. Silly human women. Silly human women with no respect for stranded time travelers.

* * *

><p>Richard breathed a sigh of relief as he relaxed in the soft car seat. It had been another long, tiring day filled with slaving away at those tax reports.<p>

And to make it even worse, his car broke down yesterday, forcing him to get a cab. The one vehicle where he wanted to be, and he was a passenger. His insides still burned with resentment that he failed to pass The Knowledge test. It'd take two months before he was allowed to retake the test, and in the meantime he had to work another job.

Luckily he'd managed to flag down a decent cab driver. The man looked familiar, but Richard couldn't place him. He was sure he'd seen him before though, and recently too. The driver kept quiet and only hummed along to a song Richard had never heard before.

"I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien, I'm an Englishman in New York," crooned the man on the radio. It was not exactly a catchy song, but it wasn't terrible to listen to either.

And then the cab driver began to babble, to Richard's dismay.

"I'm an alien, I'm an _illegal_ alien, I'm an Englishman in New York. Wait, this is London. But you can hardly be an English alien in London, now can you?"

Richard opened his mouth to answer, but the man kept on talking.

"You can be an alien in London, that happens often enough, you can even be an illegal alien. But you can't be an Englishman in London. That'd be-"

A ringing sound broke the man's monologue. Richard recognized it as the sound of a telephone, but why did a cab driver have a telephone with him? Didn't his company issue walkie-talkies to communicate?

"Speaking of illegal," said the cab driver softly. "Calling and driving: not illegal yet."

The cab driver fished around in his pockets and pressed a button on the device he got out. Richard eyed the device. Was that a _phone_? It was tiny!

"Hello? Martha?"

Richard gripped the roof handle as the driver temporarily let go of the wheel and the car began to drift towards a conveniently placed tree Mother Nature had decided to put right next to the road.

"Look out!" yelled Richard, but the driver had already regained control of the car and pulled over. He got out of the car as if it was one fire and danced around like a penguin at feeding time.

"She's back! Oh you glorious woman, Sally Sparrow, you smart, perfect, ingenious human!"

"What's going on?" demanded Richard, but the driver kept on babbling strange words about someone named Sparrow and something called a tardis. The driver suddenly stopped, raked a hand through his hair before apparently coming to a decision while staring off into the distance.

"I've got to get home. Both my homes."

Richard looked on, bewildered, as the man tore down the street. He had left the car running and Richard's mind refused to provide a way to handle this situation. He was never good with insane people. Just his luck that he got into a car with one.

The man stopped as he got to the end of the street, looked around and then came running back. Richard hurriedly got out of the car, but before he could get far from the insane man the driver yelled: "Wait! I need help!"

"Yeah you do," muttered Richard. He kept on going, but the driver was a faster runner than him.

"Please, all you've got to do deliver a letter to my company. You can keep the car after I get home."

Richard's eyes widened at that suggestion. Was this strange man actually giving away his car? He _had_ to be insane.

"No thank you, it's probably rigged," replied Richard.

"No no no no, you can check it out, it's just a cab. But I really need you to deliver this letter to my company. That's all."

Richard swiveled his head from the car to the frantic man in front of him and back. If this man really was insane and wanted to get rid of his car, why not? Richard could use the extra money he would make off it.

"You won't need your car?" he asked, to make sure. The man shook his head.

"Where I'm going, I don't need roads."

And that's when Richard recognized him. This man had also take that The Knowledge test on that day! He was the weird man with the infuriating grin. Apparently he had passed all the tests for him to be working as a cab driver.

"You keep saying that," said Richard. The man grinned that grin at him and fished around in the inner pocket of his jacket. He fished out a letter and handed it to Richard.

"So it must be true. Allons-y!"

* * *

><p>David scratched himself behind his ear as he reread the weird letter one of the Knowledge Boys handed him. It was a simple letter, plain blue ink on white paper, but its contents confused him. Over the years he'd gotten to know a lot of people through his work. He gained friends, made some enemies, but he felt pretty sure he didn't know anyone by this name.<p>

He read the letter one more time.

_Dear David,_

_Thank you for hiring me. I've had a tremendous amount of fun, more than I could have imagined. Me, with a job? But it worked out for the most part. I'd like you to know:_

_I have The Knowledge. Of Everything._

_Love,_

_the Doctor_

Underneath the neatly written letter was a scrawled sentence, which looked like somebody had written it while running to or from something.

_PS: Reconsider hiring Richard Stewart. He doesn't crack under pressure._

David scratched himself again before he put down the letter. What a nutter.


End file.
